


I've Always Loved You

by IAmWhelmed



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Super Sons (Comics), Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Bottom Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Fucking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Love, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Top Jonathan Samuel Kent, True Love, no beta we die like robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:36:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27726938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmWhelmed/pseuds/IAmWhelmed
Summary: Damian has been having sex with his best friend, lately, and he's sure that this is history repeating itself. His father never loved his mother, that was nothing but lust, and his mother came out the fool for it. He's sure he will, too, because Jon has never loved him... right?
Relationships: Jonathan Samuel Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 10
Kudos: 329





	I've Always Loved You

Jon touched him, right there, right at his hilt, gentle fingers massaging him so sweetly he wanted to scream. Instead he backed up against Jon’s chest, pressed himself as close as he could and threw his head back against his shoulder. “Ah…  _ Jon… _ ”

Jon hummed, his lips trailing over his neck where it bent, sensitive skin sucked and played with between gentle teeth. Every vibration that rang like honey from his throat made his spine tingle, made his nerves stand on end. Jon made him this way, more sensitive than anyone could, more aware and in-tune with his body than decades of training ever could. He wondered if this was how his mother felt with his father, if he was as foolishly in love as she was. Jon brushed against him, buckle undone, hitting his thigh as Jon’s manhood pressed up and teased the slit between each cheek. He grit his teeth, bit back the shameful moan, but he knew Jon heard it, heard every bit of it. He was smiling against his skin, cocky, way too cocky. “I’ve been thinking about this all day, D.”

But that, he knew. Much like his father, Jon wasn’t in love.

He clicked his tongue. “Then act like it,  _ Superboy _ .”

Jon exhaled through his nose, a rush of cold air against his bare shoulder that made his naked body tremble in contrast to the heat.  _ Jerk… _ using his cold breath in the bedroom, like he was making a point. Jon’s hands, warm, tight around his member, caressed his skin in a trail he could feel of power, of heat, right up until he was gripping his hips. He was used to this dance, it was familiar, satisfying if not, and he was remiss to admit it, heartbreaking. He bent forward, over the bed’s edge, clutched at the sheets and closed his eyes as Jon presumably readied himself for breach.

Sex, it was a recently-developed pasttime of theirs. They’d done it two handfuls of times, and each time it was like this-- with Jon holding him so tight that he left bruises at the bone of his hip, with him bent over, pretending Jon was making love to him rather than the more vulgar, less sentimental fuck. It’d started with some stupid fight, something about him not telling Jon everything, about Jon being needlessly reckless, and they’d been chest-to-chest, red-in-the-face, with Jon’s hands on his collar while his hand was on his tool belt…

… and then Jon had kissed him. Hard. And the next thing he knew, he was bracing himself against the wall with his pants at his ankles, and Jon was pounding into him so hard, so fast, so  _ punishing _ that he’d all but collapsed the moment he was done with him. But he’d collapsed into Jon’s arms, and he knew that it was about Jon punishing him for his attitude, about taking advantage of the sexual tension that’d been budding between them since they were too young to know what it was, really. To him, it was so much more than that. To him, it’d been love for longer than he’d been willing to admit, and having Jon inside of him, filling him up and dripping down his legs when he was too full to take it all; it was enough. When he collapsed and Jon took him in his arms and held him against his chest, kissed away tears he definitely didn’t shed, he could pretend. He could pretend that Jon was in love, he could pretend that Jon wasn’t just entranced by his lust the way anybody would be. He could pretend that, to Jon, this was a culmination of all the waiting, of joined hands and teasing words and times they’d almost lost each other. He could pretend that this was to Jon what it was to him.

But he knew better. He’d seen this before. The way his mother loved his father, the things he’d heard in whispers-- in the league, in the cave. His father was a notorious playboy, and that was the one thing true of him in and out of the mask, the thing both Batman and Bruce Wayne had in common, a weakness for gorgeous women with their legs spread. For his mother, it was love, love at first sight, an encompassing need to be with him, to hold him, to fall asleep on his chest and feel safe because there was no one better, no one felt safer. For his father, it was a foolish dip into degeneracy. He might have fooled himself into thinking it was love, once, but what he was interested in was the way his mother bent, not the way she sighed “ _ Beloved _ ”.

So he pressed his cheek against the mattress and clutched at the sheets, because at least he had this. At least Jon wanted him like this. At least he could feel him spreading him open and pressing inside. It was intimacy, of a sort, and he’d take what he could get.

Jon didn’t move behind him, and that was odd. Usually he was already half-way in, panting while he writhed and moaned and begged below him. Usually Jon was grabbing him by the thighs and forcing him open, tugging him back onto his dick and gasping.  _ Oh, come on _ ! He needed him, needed him right now. When Jon showed up at the fortress with purpose in his step and a look in his eyes that dared him to back away, he expected to be satisfied, not teased. He was longing for him enough, already, he didn’t need to be left wanting, too. He scowled and pressed back up against Jon, who’s hands had stilled at either of his hips. “What are you waiting for, Farm Boy?” An invitation? Was his bare ass in the air not enough?

Then, to his surprise, Jon lifted him. He inhaled and found himself suddenly on his back.

This was new.

He blinked, and Jon was leaning over him, hands not on his hips, but pinning him by his wrists. There was a narrow in his brow, steel in his eye. He was still hard, still pressing up against his entrance insistently, grinding in a way that made him scowl and whine. “I want to see you this time.” He blinked.

Jon’s eyes were soft, so soft, and the hands at his wrists were inching upward, fingers pressing between each sliver of space, open palm to open palm. He wasn’t waiting, was silently, slowly pushing into him as he laid there under him, and it felt so good. A different angle. He lifted his hips off the mattress and opened his lips, gasping as he felt him, thick, hot, filling him to the hilt. “O..Oh…” Jon leaned down, open mouth panting against his own, nose brushing against his, forehead to forehead. He thrusted, and Damian struggled to find words. “... _ Oh _ …!”

Jon took that as consent, and began taking him in a steady rhythm. Fingers entwined, bodies flush together, sliding and moving so easily it made him all the more wanting. Jon made each thrust slow, deliberate, a show of his strength, of his dominance. He didn’t once look away.

_ Oh _ , he thought, as Jon’s eyes grew darker, sweeter by the moment,  _ I was wrong _ .

He smiled, shook one of Jon’s hands away to wrap an arm over his shoulders, slip his fingers into his hair like he’d done it a million times. “You should have just said so.”

“You never listen to me.” It was said tongue-in-cheek, of course, but he meant it.

Here, he would. Would have gladly made love to Jon a million times over if he just asked, would have saved himself a lot of heartache if he did. He took him down and kissed him soundly, eyes closed. It wasn’t hard, like the first kiss, or desperate and hot like the others that followed. It was soft, languid. Jon didn’t bite him, just sucked at his skin and mumbled sweet nothings.

_ “Oh, D…” _

_ “You’re so good…” _

_ “Damian, yes…” _

He locked his ankles around Jon’s hips, squeezed the hand still holding his while Jon’s free fingers squeezed at the sheets next to his head. Jon shut his eyes and hung his head when it got to be too much, when he was getting close, when they both were. Jon’s thrusts grew faster, more desperate, and he was clinging to the shreds of control he still had as pleasure grew and boomed like lightning inside of him, again, and again,  _ and again _ . He openly moaned, didn’t see a reason not to anymore, let his chest constrict as he rolled his hips to every beat, missing not a single one. They were too in-sync for that. “ _ Oh, Jon… _ ”

“ _ Damian _ …” Jon pressed his face into the crook of his neck, nuzzled his way into the skin and huffed. He got faster, still, so fast he swore they were wearing a hole in the mattress the way Jon was launching into him. Sex was usually good, but this was… something else.

“Jon!  _ Don’t stop, please _ \--”

“ _ Oh, Dami _ \-- Damian, I--” Jon kissed him again, and this kiss was hard, like the first, but it was warm, too, professing, purposeful. He kissed him back with as much ferocity, clung to the back of his neck and kissed him with every ounce of will he still had left in his tired, well-worked body. Jon pulled away first, “... _ love you _ .” It was a whisper, something he didn’t even need to say, not anymore, but he quaked. He came the moment after, moaning, holding Jon close so he couldn’t pull away. Jon didn’t even try, came inside of him and let himself spill everything. Everything.

He heard him, and he closed his eyes and smiled. “Obviously.”  _ Me too _ , his eyes said as Jon finally pulled away to look at him, soft smiles and faux annoyance,  _ I always have _ .


End file.
